


Triumph of Galatea

by aceklaviergavin



Series: Akekita Week 2020 [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Background AnnShiho, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, art restoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceklaviergavin/pseuds/aceklaviergavin
Summary: Akechi works as a conservator of fine art, despite his distaste for the social elites that make up his clientele. Following the biggest art scandal of the decade, Kitagawa Yusuke winds up on his doorstep and asks Akechi for the impossible.In pursuit of the truth, Akechi finds the true meaning of beauty.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke
Series: Akekita Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994365
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45
Collections: Akekita Week





	Triumph of Galatea

**Author's Note:**

> Akekita Week Day 2: Ice // **Dark & Light**
> 
> i know next to nothing about art restoration & my only knowledge comes from cursory google searching. some of the techniques in this fic are real, some are just guesswork on my part. i was more interested in writing a compelling fic than providing a detailed account of art restoration processes

Ann bursts through the door of Akechi’s studio. “Oh my god, Goro, have you heard?”

“Hey, watch it!” he calls, jumping off the stool at his workstation. “Those paintings are worth two million yen!”

Ann eyes the rack of finished projects with disinterest, but gives them a wide berth as she approaches Akechi. Her heels click against the wood floor, in jean shorts and a jacket tied around her waist. Akechi would _never_ wear something like that in his studio and has half a mind to push her out the door.

“Forget that, have you heard about Madarame?” she asks, whipping out her phone.

He’s a conservator of fine art, of course he’s _heard_ of Madarame. But Ann knows that; she dragged him to one of Madarame’s exhibits. Akechi didn’t care much for his work. Akechi very rarely worked with contemporary art, and Madarame’s work didn’t impress him enough to make an exception. Ann just elbowed him and accused him of hating old people. Which, fair. Akechi _does_ hate old people. Particularly old people with vibes as rancid as Madarame.

The last Akechi heard of him, he was unveiling a new exhibit in Ueno. “It’s all over the news,” Ann chatters, pulling up an article on her phone.

“Master Artist or Talentless Fraud?” Akechi reads.

He pulls off his gloves before taking Ann’s phone. Beneath the headline is a picture of Madarame in handcuffs, being pushed into the back of a police car. Akechi’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, his eyes skimming the article as he scrolls further down.

“Apparently someone came forward with a _ton_ of evidence against him for all sorts of crimes. Blackmail, abuse, and get this, they say he’s been stealing artwork for years!”

The article repeats what Ann says. Some unnamed source sent information to the police, culminating in Madarame’s arrest that morning. The article doesn’t contain much more information than that, only mentions that the story is still developing, and to expect updates as the situation progresses.

“Well?” Ann says, clearly expecting some sort of response.

Akechi glances up at her and returns her phone. “That would certainly explain why I never liked the man.”

Ann rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant!” she huffs. “Do you think it’s true?”

Akechi shrugs. “I would assume so. I doubt the police would move against someone as influential as Madarame without overwhelming evidence.”

“I thought cops were pigs that drum up false charges?”

“Yes, but the rules are different if you have money.” Akechi scowls. “The only reason they’d arrest someone like Madarame is if doing nothing would make them look worse.”

“Do you ever stop being a cynical bastard?” Ann folds her arms over her chest.

Akechi pulls on a new pair of latex gloves with a snap. “No. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“That’s it?” Ann asks incredulously. “I ran all the way here!”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Art is like… your _thing!”_ She gestures vaguely at the contents of his studio. “Shouldn’t you be more shocked?”

Akechi turns back to the painting he’s been working out. An 18th century damaged wood painting. It’s been a fairly easy job for a regular client. He’s currently in the process of cleaning away the years of dirt.

“I always told you Madarame was a snake. This is just confirming my suspicions.”

Ann rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “You say that about _everyone!_ Of course you’re going to be right sometimes!”

“And it hasn’t failed me yet.” Akechi dips a cotton swab into the jar of solvent. “Besides, I rarely deal with contemporary art. Madarame might as well exist in another world.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Ann’s heels click aggressively as she heads for the door. “Lunch in an hour?”

“As always,” Akechi replies, gently swabbing the surface of the painting.

That’s the last he thinks of Madarame for some time. Some of his colleagues mention the case in passing. Apparently, he’d been taking young artists under his wing, then passing their paintings off as his own. That more than anything else, makes Akechi’s blood boil. Frankly, he could care less about what crimes Madarame committed against people with more money than sense. But exploiting vulnerable children is unforgivable.

It brings to mind memories Akechi would rather forget—of all the foster parents that invited him into their homes, then spit him out when he was no longer of use. Akechi pushes that rage down, locks it away deep inside, and tries to move on. At least until it ends up on his doorstep.

A loud buzzer signals someone’s arrival. Akechi sighs, sitting up from the painting he’s working on, and rolls out the tension in his shoulders. The buzzer sounds again, longer this time.

“I’m coming!” Akechi shouts, standing up.

Sometimes, he really regrets making the studio’s address public knowledge, no matter how good it is for business. Akechi unties his smock, hangs it on the peg by the door, and walks into the small sitting area that serves as his office slash breakroom slash foyer. A laminate counter lines one wall, where a coffee pot sits next to a sink. A mini fridge is crammed into the corner. The other end of the room holds a semi-professional sitting area. A dark gray futon sits against the wall across from a small sofa chair. Akechi ignores the decor, heading straight for the entryway.

Akechi opens the door unceremoniously, a harsh scowl marring his face. “Can I help you?” he asks tersely.

The man on the other side of the door is tall, thin and angular against the halogen lights. His silver eyes widen, as if he hadn’t been expecting someone to actually answer the door. Long, dark blue hair hides his left brow.

 _Definitely an artist,_ Akechi thinks to himself.

“Ah, are you Akechi-san?” the man asks, voice much deeper than it had any right to be.

Given that “Akechi-san” is the only one that works here, he feels that should go without saying. However, Akechi bites back the snarky reply. Ann has said he needs to work on his customer service.

“Yes.” He still manages to make it sound like an accusation. “And you are…?”

“Forgive me, I’m Kitagawa Yusuke.” The man, Yusuke, offers a polite bow.

That name rings a distant bell in Akechi’s memory, but he can’t quite place it. Yusuke must note the flash of recognition in Akechi’s eyes, because he shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m Madarame-sen—” Yusuke cuts himself off abruptly, “Madarame’s pupil… former pupil, I suppose.”

“Ah.” That would explain it then.

Yusuke’s name had been mentioned in passing during the coverage of Madarame’s case. A number of reporters tried to track him down and get a statement, but Yusuke remained elusive. Unbidden, Akechi’s brain fills in what little he knows about him. He’s a young man, nearly twenty, enrolled at the Tokyo University of Art. He’s been Madarame’s sole pupil for some time, and the only one who’d ever attained any measure of success.

Akechi isn’t sure whether condolences are appropriate in this situation. Not that he sincerely cares about Madarame’s situation. Instead, Akechi keeps quiet on the matter, and moves onto business.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Akechi asks, offering a smile that’s all teeth.

Yusuke stands with his arms crossed over his chest, shoulders rigid. “I have a piece I need restored.” He refuses to meet Akechi’s eyes. “My friend sent me your way.”

Akechi watches him for a long moment, piecing together the things Yusuke doesn’t say. He’s closed off, shrunken in despite the fact that he stands taller than Akechi. This is almost certainly related to the Madarame case, which would make any potential work extremely valuable. In other words, good for business. Though, there’s no telling what exactly Yusuke’s involvement with Madarame is. For all Akechi knows, he could be an accomplice.

“Who’s your friend?” Akechi finally asks.

“Takamaki Ann.”

Akechi rolls his eyes. Of course Ann would know Madarame’s prized pupil. Akechi certainly doesn’t _trust_ Ann’s judgment. She’s been known to give people far more credit than they deserved. She’s friends with Akechi, after all. But Ann’s approval at least earns Yusuke a consultation.

Akechi steps back from the door, waving Yusuke inside. “Have a seat, then,” he sighs.

Yusuke sits on the small sofa chair that Akechi set up for clients. He folds his legs awkwardly over one another, limbs to long to fit comfortably. Akechi goes to the coffee pot. It was about time for his break, anyway.

“Can I get you anything?” Akechi offers blandly.

Akechi doesn’t really care for pleasantries. But he at least tries to put in _some_ effort. His clients are pretentious that way.

Yusuke, for his part, is polite enough to decline. “No, I’m fine.”

Akechi pours himself a generous mug of coffee, then goes to sit across from Yusuke. He sits down gracefully, placing his mug on the small glass coffee table between them. He folds his hands in his lap, watching Yusuke intently. Yusuke shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. Akechi draws out the silence for a moment longer than necessary.

“Tell me about this piece you need restored,” he finally says.

Yusuke’s shoulders sag with relief at the direction. “Yes, right…” He takes a deep breath. “I assume you’ve heard of the case against Sen— Madarame?”

Akechi keeps his face plain, refusing to give any of his emotions away. “In passing, yes.”

Yusuke tilts his head curiously, seemingly stunned by that answer. Akechi doesn’t elaborate.

“Yes, well…” Yusuke nervously tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Akechi notes a thick scar cutting across his eyebrow. “A number of the pieces he claimed as his own were not only stolen but painted over. There’s a painting of mine I’d like restored, if possible.”

Akechi notes that Yusuke speaks with certainty. He doesn’t cloak his accusations behind anonymity or possibilities. The likelihood of Yusuke being an accomplice diminishes with every word he speaks. If he _is_ involved, it would be very foolish for him to seek out Akechi so soon. More likely, he’s a victim, seeking to reclaim a painting that his master had stolen.

“I would need to take a look at the piece itself,” Akechi says, arms folded. “It’s rare that I work with contemporary pieces. The restoration process is very different.”

Yusuke nods, his face falling. “I see.”

“I’m not saying it’s impossible, I’m saying that I can’t make any promises.”

Yusuke meets Akechi’s gaze, eyes flashing with steel. “Ann said you were the best.”

Akechi blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. He bares his teeth in a wolfish grin. “She was right.”

Yusuke brings the painting in the next day. It’s covered in a protective sheet to ward off the elements. Yusuke holds it gingerly in his grasp, like it might shatter if he’s not careful. If it truly is one of “Madarame’s” works, Akechi supposes caution is warranted. This painting was no doubt the most valuable in the studio at the moment, though who knows if that will remain true in the coming months. Knowing art snobs, scandal might make the painting _more_ valuable.

“You can set it on the table,” Akechi says, putting on his gloves.

Yusuke hesitates, holding the painting close to his chest.

Akechi rolls his eyes. “Are you afraid that I’ll breathe on it?”

“No, I…!” Yusuke glares at him, eyes sparking like flint against steel. Akechi finds he quite enjoys that fire. “If you can’t do it… then just stop.”

What kind of quack does Yusuke take him for? “With all due respect, Kitagawa-san, I know what I’m doing.” He gestures at the table. “Now, if you would.”

Slowly, Yusuke lays the covered painting flat, with all the care of someone handling crystal and not simple canvas. His hands hover at his sides, ready to reach out and stop anyone that gets to close.

Honestly, what does Yusuke think he’s about to do? Akechi moves around the table, to Yusuke’s side. Yusuke nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden movement. Akechi gives him an exasperated look, but Yusuke fails to take the hint.

“If you could give me some space?” Akechi shoos Yusuke back from the table.

Yusuke takes a small step back. At Akechi’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and reluctantly takes another. With more room to breathe, Akechi finally turns back to the painting on his table. He pinches the protective film between his gloved fingers, and ever so slowly uncovers Yusuke’s painting.

When he sees it, his breath stops. He knows this painting, the melancholy gaze, the red dress, and lilac fog. Everyone in _Japan_ knows this painting. If Yusuke fucking _stole_ the most famous painting in Japan and brought it to Akechi’s studio, Akechi will be all over the news. That was the absolute _last_ thing Akechi wanted.

Did Yusuke think he was crooked? That he would accept hush money to make a masterpiece disappear? Akechi lowers the film back down with shaking hands. He turns to Yusuke with burning eyes. His teeth grind inside his skull.

“You failed to mention the painting you wanted restored was the fucking _Sayuri,”_ Akechi growls through clenched teeth.

Yusuke lifts his chin as he meets Akechi’s gaze, none of the timid boy from before. “I don’t see why that should matter.”

Akechi turns his back on the masterpiece, facing Yusuke with the full force of his anger. It seemed that while Akechi was sussing out Yusuke’s intentions, Yusuke had his own game to play. Akechi doesn’t like having his time wasted. He hates being lied to even more.

“You expect me to believe that _you_ painted the _Sayuri?”_ Akechi scoffs. “Come on now. You would have been a child.”

“I never said I painted it, I just said it was mine,” Yusuke says petulantly.

“Are you really going to argue semantics?” Akechi hisses. “You intentionally deceived me.”

“If I came in saying I wanted you to restore the _Sayuri_ would you have listened?” Yusuke asks.

No, Akechi would have laughed in his face and told him to get out of his studio.

“Furthermore, if I went to a less skilled conservator and asked them to restore the _Sayuri,_ how many would jump at the chance regardless of whether they were qualified?”

Yusuke had a fair point there. Akechi could count on one hand the number of people he would trust to work on a painting like the _Sayuri._ But that wouldn’t stop others from trying, just for the glory.

That doesn’t make Akechi any less irritated. “I’m not going to work on a painting that doesn’t belong to you.” His hands flexed at his sides.

“It _does_ belong to me. I didn’t lie,” Yusuke huffs. “I have the documentation to prove it.

Akechi raises an eyebrow at that. There’s almost certainly a story there. But regardless of the circumstances, part of Akechi wants to throw Yusuke out of his studio just for being a pain in the ass. He could find someone else to help him. Any conservator in Japan would jump at the chance.

But Akechi was the best.

“It was my mother’s,” Yusuke says, so softly that Akechi almost doesn’t hear it. “It’s all I have left of her.”

God fucking damn it.

Akechi lets out an exasperated sigh. “Do you have proof of ownership on you?”

Yusuke’s eyes immediately brighten. “Yes! It’s in my bag.”

Akechi turns back to the _Sayuri,_ hidden beneath a layer of film. “I’m not doing anything until I see it and confirm it.”

“Of course!” Yusuke bows low, nearly smacking his head on the table.

“Watch it!” Akechi scolds.

“I can’t thank you enough!”

“You can thank me after I invoice you,” Akechi grumbles, uncovering the _Sayuri_ once more.

Once Yusuke returns with the documents and Akechi verifies their legitimacy, he gets to work. The first part of any good restoration is determining exactly which parts of the painting are damaged. Normally, Akechi’s work involves undoing the damage that time and improper handling have wrought. The _Sayuri_ is different. Not even twenty years old, the painting is in pristine condition. The _Sayuri_ has always been treated with the care that a masterpiece deserves. The varnish hasn’t darkened with dirt, no cracks marr the subject’s serene expression.

Akechi spends an entire day scouring the painting, inspecting it down to the very brushstrokes. For a conservator, Akechi has never really cared much for art. He ended up in the business by chance, when his prying eyes landed him in the middle of an art forgery ring and he took an interest in the practice. 

He’s always had a natural talent for art, but none of the urge to make his own. There are enough second rate artists in the world, Akechi doesn’t need to add himself to the crowd. Conservatorship was a natural fit. He could use his own skills to fill in the gaps that time had worn on other paintings. Every painting he works on is a puzzle, using the clues he finds in the background, the brushwork, and the time period to find the right way to undo the decades and centuries of damage. He fills in the missing pieces and at the end the work is born anew, stolen back from the clutches of time.

In the end, what Akechi does is simply ethical forgery. With his eye for detail, Akechi quickly became known within the world of Japanese art. Every socialite with old paintings in their attic sought him to restore their grandfather’s work. Anyone who suspected they held a masterpiece lost to time wanted Akechi to take a look. To be honest, Akechi could hardly tell a priceless work from a child’s scribble. It was all the same to him. As long as his clients paid, he couldn’t care less whether they held the next _Mona Lisa._

That said, even Akechi can tell that the Sayuri is different. Every stroke is deliberate, masterful, and precise. The woman’s red dress stands out against the painting’s otherwise muted palette, her eyes staring purposefully down into the fog. No matter how long Akechi looks, he fails to find a single brushstroke out of place.

Of course, Madarame was no fool. If Yusuke’s story is true, then Madarame would know how to cover his tracks. He likely spent just as much time examining the painting as Akechi, taking care to emulate the style of his pupil as he painted her work out of existence. Akechi has no intention of losing to a fraud.

He meets Yusuke in a café on his lunch break. Akechi was perfectly capable of having this conversation over the phone, but Yusuke insisted. It wouldn’t be Akechi’s first time dealing with an eccentric client and almost certainly not his last.

Yusuke orders a simple black coffee and waits while Akechi picks at a croissant. He watches Akechi with steely eyes, drumming his long fingers on the table. Akechi gets the sense that he’s being judged. It’s fine, Akechi is certainly judging him.

“Just from the visual inspection, I wasn’t able to find any evidence of fraud,” Akechi says plainly, as if discussing something mundane and not Yusuke’s lifeline.

Yusuke visibly deflates, his eyes shining with desperation. “But…! I _know_ he did!”

Akechi raises an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure?”

“There’s evidence, he admitted to it and a swath of other crimes in negotiation for a plea deal,” Yusuke explains, arms folded.

Ah, there’s the justice system Akechi knows so well. “Did it ever occur to you he might be lying for the sake of a lighter sentence?” Akechi asks pointedly. “Scum like him will say whatever they need to in service of themselves.”

Yusuke flinches, hugging himself. “So that’s it, then? You’re giving up?”

“Hardly,” Akechi bites, angrily tearing off a piece of croissant. “Honestly, you should let me finish before jumping to conclusions.”

Yusuke watches him with renewed interest.

“If what you say is true, then clearly Madarame is a skilled liar. I wouldn’t expect his forgery to fail a simple visual inspection.” A wicked grin curls at the edge of Akechi’s mouth. “Thankfully, I have ways to see what the eyes can’t.”

“What are you suggesting?” Yusuke eyes him with all the wariness of a cornered wolf.

“By shining infrared light at the painting, I’ll be able to penetrate through the visible layer of paint to see anything underneath.”

Yusuke’s eyes immediately widen, his mouth opening to object.

Akechi cuts him off before he can speak. “It’s noninvasive. I do it all the time.”

Yusuke’s hesitation is still clear on his face. “It won’t damage the _Sayuri?”_

Akechi shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Yusuke relaxes at that, his grip on his shoulders loosening.

But Akechi’s not done. “However, you need to be prepared for the possibility that Madarame was lying. Or even if he _did_ vandalize your mother’s work, he may have wiped away the original. It’s entirely possible that even with more advanced methods, there’s nothing to be found.”

Yusuke falls still, meeting Akechi’s focused gaze. His own silver eyes still shine with desperation, in search of answers that have eluded him his whole life. He stands on the precipice of a cliff, unknowing of what awaits him at the bottom.

“Is that a risk you’re willing to take?” Akechi asks sharply.

Yusuke doesn’t dare look away, for fear he’ll tip the scales. “I need to know the truth.”

Akechi’s wolfish grin turns pleasant, almost happy. “We’re in agreement then.”

Setting up his studio is a spectacle all on its own.

Ann grunts, dragging the bulky lamp out of storage. “If you told me you were going to make me _work_ I wouldn’t have come,” she grumbles.

“Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Akechi hums, setting up the camera in the center.

The _Sayuri_ hangs on the wall in his studio, a small camera set up about a meter away. On either side, two large lamps are pointed directly at the painting. A thick black curtain is pulled closed, separating them from the rest of Akechi’s studio. It keeps outside light to a minimum. It also unfortunately keeps the heat generated by the lamps _in._ Akechi has his hair tied at the nape of his neck, but even still finds it sweltering.

Ann stands back, looking at the setup and can’t help but laugh. “All you need is a couple light boxes and you’ll have one of my modeling shoots.”

“Except _this_ model is much more well-behaved.”

“Hey!” Ann punches him lightly on the shoulder.

Akechi doesn’t reply except to smirk to himself. The setup takes far longer than the process itself. The actual imaging is as simple as turning on a camera. But before that, they have to route the power cables through the studio, then wait for the lamps to warm up. It involves far more crawling around on the floor than Akechi would have assumed when he started down this career path.

“I wasn’t aware that you knew one of Madarame’s pupils,” Akechi says nonchalantly, bundling the power cords together.

“Hm?” Ann looks up from her phone. “Oh, yeah, I met him at one of the exhibits.”

“You went to another one without me?” Despite his best efforts, Akechi still sounds petulant.

“Are you _jealous?”_ Ann can’t help but laugh. “You _hated_ Madarame!”

“Still do!” Akechi shouts back.

“Regardless, you weren’t any fun so I went to the next one with Shiho.” Ann flips one of her pigtails over her shoulder. _“She_ at least appreciates fine art.”

“Somehow I doubt it’s the _art_ she was appreciating,” Akechi grumbles.

“Hm?”

“Besides, considering the fact that Madarame’s a fraud, his art is _hardly_ fine.”

Ann pouts at him. “See? No fun at all.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Anyway, Yusuke saw me there and said he was ‘struck by inspiration’ and asked me to model for him.” She pitches her voice low in her best impression.

Akechi nearly punches the wall socket. “He _what?”_

Ann laughs. “Yeah, it was pretty wild. He just walked up to me and _asked._ Who does that?”

Who, indeed. Akechi plugs the camera into the outlet as angrily as he can manage. He tries not to take offense that apparently Ann is inspiring. All Akechi seems to inspire in Yusuke is anger. But. Akechi is very petty and known to hold a grudge. When Akechi was in high school, agencies tried to scout him for modeling and host clubs and the like. He actively had to turn offers _down._ Who the hell does Kitagawa think he is?

 _“Ohhh…”_ Ann says, a metaphorical lightbulb flashing above her head.

“What?” Akechi snaps.

“He’s not into women, if that’s what you meant.”

“It wasn’t, but thanks for the information.” Akechi hates that the knowledge makes his chest feel lighter.

 _“Mhm.”_ She grins like the cheshire cat, eyes sparkling with newfound interest.

Akechi sincerely regrets inviting her over. He can drag a bunch of lamps around his studio on his own just fine. He stomps over to the camera, pointing the lens resolutely at the _Sayuri,_ ignoring Ann entirely. Unfortunately, he can still feel her gaze on his back.

“I didn’t think about it but he _is_ your type,” she hums thoughtfully.

“Stop.” Akechi continues to fiddle with camera settings.

“Y’know, I could put in a good word for you,” Ann sings.

“That won’t be necessary.” The _Sayuri_ appears in monochrome on the viewfinder.

Ann taps her chin thoughtfully. “You have such a pretty face, I bet he’s _dying_ to paint you.”

“He’s a client.” Akechi slowly zooms in, scanning the canvas for irregularities

“And?”

“I don’t mix business with pleasure.” Akechi pans the camera down, searching, searching.

“So you admit you’re interested.”

Akechi draws in a sharp breath. “Holy fucking shit.”

“What, what is it?” Ann stands on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. 

There, beneath the fog, the _Sayuri’s_ arms curl around…

“Is that a potato?” Ann asks, squinting her eyes.

“Of course it’s not a fucking _potato,”_ Akechi snaps. “It’s clearly…”

Huh.

It really _does_ look like a potato.

Akechi curses under his breath, messing with the settings on the camera. No matter how he tries, he can’t get a clearer picture of what the _Sayuri_ holds. But just the revelation that she’s holding anything at all is _earth-shattering._ People had speculated on the mystery behind the _Sayuri’s_ gaze for decades. The idea that there was an _answer_ and Akechi could _find it…_

Yusuke had told him the _Sayuri_ was stolen, that the master artist’s greatest work was nothing but a sham. But until that moment, staring at the proof in front of his eyes, part of Akechi still hadn’t believed it. It was _real,_ and Akechi could bring back what had been stolen.

He meets Yusuke the next day in that same café. Riding high on the promise of a mystery solved, Akechi pays for lunch. He places a small sandwich in front of Yusuke while digging into a muffin.

“Oh, you didn’t have to…” Yusuke begins, though Akechi can practically see him drooling.

“I’m in a generous mood,” Akechi says, leaving no room for argument. “Just eat the damn sandwich.”

Yusuke looks at Akechi curiously, but does as he’s told. They simply eat in silence for a few minutes. For all his objections, Yusuke scarfs down the food exactly the way any broke college student would.

“You mentioned progress on the _Sayuri?”_ Yusuke finally asks, once he’s finished devouring his meal.

Akechi can’t help the pleased smirk that curls on his lips. “Here.” He tosses a simple white envelope across the table.

Yusuke fumbles, catching it in his hands. He eyes Akechi curiously, but slowly peels the flap open. Inside are a series of photographs, showcasing Akechi’s findings. Yusuke spreads the photographs on the table. One shows a zoomed shot of the brushstrokes that had been painted over. Another shows a signature hidden beneath Madarame's own. Finally, the last shows the _Sayuri’s_ arms, cradling something to her chest.

Yusuke’s eyes scan the photos, taking it all in. “What am I looking at?” he asks slowly.

For once, Akechi is happy to explain. “These images show what the _Sayuri’s_ hidden all this time.”

Yusuke picks up the image of the _Sayuri’s_ arms. “This is what’s beneath the surface?”

Akechi nods fervently. “Yes! This proves that Madarame painted over it, just like you said!”

Yusuke tilts his head curiously. “Is she holding a daikon?”

Akechi’s grin immediately pulls into a scowl. “Why would you…?” Akechi rolls his eyes. “No, she’s not holding a potato, or a daikon, or any _other_ root vegetable.”

Yusuke turns that confused look to Akechi. “Why would she be holding a potato?”

Akechi chooses to ignore that for the sake of his own health “The layers of overpainting were too thick in that spot for the light to penetrate through, but there’s something there, I _know_ it.” Akechi taps the photo bearing the signature. _“Look._ Kitagawa, right beneath where that bastard signed his name”

Yusuke stares at the photo, picking it up like it might shatter in his hands. Tenderly, he brushes his thumb over the lines of his mother’s signature. He only feels glossy photo paper beneath his thumb. But he imagines the lines of his mother’s brush, what they might feel like beneath his fingertips.

“Mom,” he says softly, eyes shining with unshed tears.

The exhilaration of discovery dims, as the reality of Yusuke’s situation dawns on him. For Akechi, the _Sayuri’s_ secret is the revelation of a lifetime. If Akechi is the one to uncover it, his name will be known not just in Japan, but the whole world over. Hell, he could write a book about the experience and live off the royalties for the rest of his life if he wanted (he doesn’t). But more than fame is the allure of a good mystery, one to which Akechi holds the key.

But to Yusuke, this is more than that. Akechi has had his fair share of clients with emotional attachments to their pieces. What reason would there be to seek out a conservator if the artwork didn’t make them feel something? Usually, Akechi finds it more of an annoyance than anything. He’ll show every piece the same amount of care and consideration regardless of whether it was painted by so-and-so’s great-grandfather. Akechi is good at what he does. Emotions only serve to muddy the waters.

But watching Yusuke crumble at the sight of his mother’s signature stirs something inside Akechi’s chest, a feeling he thought long buried.

Yusuke gasps breathlessly, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to get overwhelmed.” More tears escape his lashes, replacing the ones he’d wiped away.

Akechi pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to Yusuke. “It’s fine.”

Yusuke presses it to his eyes, trying to dam the flow of tears. “My mother died of an illness when I was very young. Sensei raised me ever since.” Unbidden, Akechi remembers the allegations of abuse and his blood boils. “I’ve looked up to the _Sayuri_ my whole life. To know for certain that my mother painted it…”

Akechi’s hands curl into fists atop the table. “I… understand,” he finds himself saying. “My mother also… died when I was young.”

Yusuke lowers the handkerchief from his eyes, meeting Akechi’s gaze as if seeing him for the first time.

“My father… never wanted me. I grew up in foster care… It wasn’t… a pleasant experience.”

Akechi tells himself that he’s sharing for his own sake. If he wants to continue work on the _Sayuri,_ Yusuke needs to trust him. But even as he tells himself, it feels hollow.

Yusuke sighs in relief, Atlas putting down his burdens for one moment. “I stayed with Sensei for _so long,”_ he gasps. “I loved him but all this time he only ever saw me as a tool.”

Akechi thinks of his own father, way up high in his ivory tower. Even still, sometimes all Akechi wanted was for him to take notice.

“You were a child. You didn’t know any better. He used that against you,” Akechi says numbly.

Strangely, it’s the nicest thing Akechi’s ever said to himself.

 _“Why?”_ Yusuke sobs.

“Because to him, your life was an acceptable price for his fame.”

Yusuke’s shoulders tremble with silent sobs. The only sounds are his trembling breaths and the quiet sniffles muffled by Akechi’s handkerchief. When his tears finally peter out, he holds the handkerchief out to Akechi limply.

Akechi waves him off. “I can’t undo the damage he’s done.” Akechi leans in, rebellious zeal burning in his eyes. “But I can take back what he’s stolen from you.”

Yusuke meets his gaze with silver eyes tinted red. Tears still cling to his lashes, the tip of his nose flushed from crying. But beneath that sorrow, Akechi sees that rebellious spark reflected back.

“Alright,” Yusuke says.

Of course, uncovering the _Sayuri’s_ secret is easier said than done. When Madarame bastardized Kitagawa’s work, he certainly didn’t intend for the process to ever be reversed. As far as Akechi’s concerned, the shrively old bastard can go fuck himself. He has no intention of losing here.

But sheer determination doesn’t make the process any easier. Akechi spends hours bent over the Sayuri, attacking the layer of fog with the weakest solvent he can find. Madarame almost certainly used the same formulation of paint as Yusuke’s mother did. Which means that any solvent strong enough to remove Madarame’s paint will be strong enough to erase the original as well. Which simply means Akechi has to be careful, using as little liquid as possible and taking care to wipe it away as soon as the top layer of paint is revealed.

The work is excruciatingly slow and arduous. Every day he goes home to his tiny apartment, shoulders cramping from long hours bent over the _Sayuri._ But every hour at the canvas unveils a new discovery. Akechi clears the fog, following the curve of the _Sayuri’s_ arm.

He and Yusuke continue to meet for lunch in that same café. What first started as an occasional lunch together evolves into an everyday affair. Akechi resolutely ignores Ann’s annoyed texts at being blown off. He can apologize once he’s finished this piece.

“That bastard certainly never intended for his work to be undone, but I’m almost there,” Akechi says, digging into a piece of cream cake like a warrior returned from battle.

Yusuke stares into the depths of his coffee, smile weak and demure. “I’m glad,” he says, voice flat and lifeless.

Akechi pauses, cream curdling inside his mouth. “Really? You could have fooled me,” Akechi huffs, pointing his fork accusingly at Yusuke.

Yusuke lets out a heavy sigh, eyes never leaving his mug. “I _am_ glad, truly. Your work has been absolutely incredible. I could never even begin to repay you for what you’ve already given me.” With every word, dread mounts in Akechi’s gut. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to end our partnership here.”

“What?” Akechi blurts out, fork clattering to the table.

Yusuke still refuses to meet his eyes. “I truly regret stopping short, after all the work you’ve done…” Yusuke’s grip on his mug tightens, knuckles blanching white. “But I… I can’t afford to pay you anymore.”

Akechi relaxes upon hearing that Yusuke isn’t displeased with _him._

“I told you that Madarame raised me. I don’t have any other family. With him gone I’m… alone. All of his assets are tied up in his case, I… I don’t have anything.” Yusuke pulls his mouth into a thin line, fighting against the threat of tears. “I’ve already stretched myself thin to get this far, but… I have nothing left to give.”

Silence falls between them. Akechi watches Yusuke blankly as Yusuke refuses to meet his gaze. As a rule, Akechi doesn’t work for free. He has a business to run, after all. No matter how much his clients think their pieces are worth, they’re very rarely worth more than Akechi’s time.

But he’s so goddamn close he can _taste_ it.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Akechi snaps, crossing his arms.

Yusuke scowls at him, daring to meet Akechi’s eyes. “I’m not exactly _proud_ of my financial situation.”

Akechi has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As if Yusuke had any sort of control over his finances.

“I don’t care about the money,” Akechi says tersely. “I have no interest in making an _orphan_ starve just to pay for my labor.”

“I am not _starving,”_ Yusuke insists.

Given that Yusuke practically swallows his food whole like a snake, Akechi isn’t inclined to believe him. “Regardless, money isn’t an issue.”

Yusuke eyes him warily. “If you’re not interested in money then what _are_ you after?” Yusuke bites the inside of his cheek. “Fame?”

Ah, of course. It wasn’t that long ago that Yusuke learned his foster father exploited him for fame and fortune. It made sense that he would doubt Akechi’s motives. Which meant that Akechi would have to spell them out for him.

“Everyone already knows I’m the best in Japan,” Akechi points out. “What use could I possibly have for fame?”

“You could be the best in the world.”

“You say that as if I wouldn’t get there on my own.”

“You certainly have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Only because it’s true.”

Yusuke tilts his head, watching Akechi with abject fascination, the same way one would watch an animal in the zoo. His silver eyes pierce Akechi’s skin, unraveling all his armor at the seams. Strange that one look could leave him defenseless.

Akechi takes a deep breath and holds. “All I want,” he says with measured patience, “is to see this through. I have no intention of giving up.”

Yusuke tilts his head the other direction. “Would you ever be interested in modeling?”

It’s so out of nowhere that Akechi can’t help but bark out a laugh. “I’m sorry?”

“Your expression just now… so _intense.”_ Yusuke frames Akechi’s face with his fingers. “I’d very much like to paint you.”

Pride hums in Akechi’s chest. His very first instinct is to grab his phone and tell Ann where she can shove it. But he wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being proven right. Instead he coughs into his fist to hide his blush.

“We can discuss that _after_ I’ve finished with the _Sayuri,”_ Akechi offers.

Yusuke’s mouth blooms into a pleased smile. “I’m looking forward to it.

Work on the _Sayuri_ continues. Slowly, day by day, Akechi peels back the cover of fog. All that remains is that damn patch in the center, where Madarame layered the paint so thick that no light could penetrate. Akechi works his way in, revealing something… _white._

His first thought is: _if it really_ is _a daikon I’m quitting my job._ As he works further in, he begins to see texture. He breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s a cloth of some kind. But that still doesn’t tell him anything about what it actually _is._

He works deep into the night, determined to solve this mystery once and for all. The lights outside dim, Tokyo turning dark as Akechi works in his well lit studio. His hands cramp from wiping away layers upon layers of paint, his back aches from holding one position for hours, and his eyes sting from being denied sleep for so long.

But victory is within his grasp. He takes a deep breath and lets it go. He’ll be damned if he stumbles this close to the end. The first peek of black beneath the fog is intoxicating. Akechi drinks it in, working further in. Black gives way to pale skin, pinched eyes, a round cheek.

When Akechi finally realizes just what it is, he drops his brush. He shoots up from his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. He steps a few paces back and crouches to the floor. His head spins. He doesn’t know whether it’s the revelation or hunger. He closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. He wills his racing heart to slow. When he’s ready, he pushes himself to a stand. He’s more determined than ever to finish this.

Akechi spends the next morning sleeping on the futon in his “office,” using his coat as a blanket. The jarring note of the buzzer jolts him out of his dream. He scrambles to get up in his excitement and only succeeds in tangling himself in his coat. He tumbles off the futon, landing on the floor with a _thump._

“Fuck,” Akechi hisses under his breath. “I’m coming!” he yells.

He throws his coat haphazardly on the futon and stumbles his way to the door. He wrenches it open forcefully. Yusuke stands on the other side, just as Akechi expected. He makes no effort to hide his surprise, staring at Akechi with eyebrows raised.

“Are you alright?” he asks, craning his neck to look past the door. “I heard something—”

“It’s fine,” Akechi cuts him off. He steps back in a wordless invitation.

Yusuke tentatively steps inside, eyes never leaving Akechi. “You look terrible.”

Akechi can only imagine. He’s still wearing his clothes from the previous day, and no doubt most of his concealer wiped off on the futon. He didn’t bother running home to shower or brush his hair. On top of everything, he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee. But this was too important.

Akechi scowls. “Charming as ever, Kitagawa-kun.”

“Thank you.”

Akechi shakes his head. But it’s not his responsibility to give Yusuke a lesson on manners. He grabs Yusuke by the wrist and drags him into his studio. In the center stands an easel, draped in cloth to hide the _Sayuri_ from view. Akechi has always had a flair for the dramatic.

Akechi stops in front of the easel, Yusuke falling into place beside him. “It’s done,” Akechi says triumphantly, gesturing at the display.

Yusuke’s eyes widen, lips parting wordlessly. “Really? You were able to restore it?” he breathes.

Akechi nods, smiling even through his weary eyes. “As good as the day your mother painted it.”

Yusuke clasps his hands in front of his body, staring through the cloth like his eyes might pierce its veil. He’s wondered his whole life what the mystery behind the _Sayuri’s_ gaze was. He spent his youth asking Madarame, only to be rebuked at every opportunity. He’s only just begun to accept that his mother painted it, that there was an _answer_ to that which he’d wondered all this time.

Is he truly ready to see it? Can the truth possibly live up to the ideal he’s imagined in his mind?

“Would you like to do the honors or shall I?” Akechi offers.

Yusuke’s hands tremble uncontrollably. He shakes his head. “You do it.”

Akechi nods and steps forward. He grasps the cloth in both hands. Yusuke watches, unblinking, his heart lodged in his throat. In one smooth flourish, Akechi pulls back the veil.

Before him rests the painting he’s known all his life. The _Sayuri’s_ serene, forlorn expression is the same, the cherry blossoms in the background sway in the breeze. But in her arms, once obscured by lavender fog, she holds a sleeping, rosy-cheeked babe. They lie at the end of her gaze, the answer that artists have wondered for decades.

Yusuke’s vision swims before his eyes as he struggles to comprehend what he sees. “What?” he gasps.

Akechi takes his place back at Yusuke’s side. “The _Sayuri_ is a self-portrait,” he murmurs, “of a mother who regrets leaving her son behind.”

Yusuke covers his mouth, swallowing his gasp, as the colors bleed together before his eyes. But the _Sayuri_ is burned in his memory. He knows her face… his _mother’s_ face by heart. Yusuke remembers so little of his mother. If she ever had any possessions, Madarame hid them away. He’s never known her face, except for the vague shadows in his earliest memories. But she’s been here, watching over him all this time.

“So the truth behind the _Sayuri’s_ expression…” Yusuke gasps.

“Was you,” Akechi finishes, watching realization spark in Yusuke’s eyes. “She’s been looking at you all this time.”

Yusuke has spent hours staring at the _Sayuri,_ trying to identify the emotions in her gaze. It evoked intense waves of feelings. He felt her longing and joy as if they were his own. Yet no matter how long he studied it, he could never quite explain why. All those emotions wash over him now, with the force of a great wave. Her yearning is his to bear, her hope his to carry.

He buckles under its weight.

Akechi catches him before he can fall, arms wrapped around his waist. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he breathes.

Yusuke clutches the back of his shirt, unthinking as he buries his face in Akechi’s shoulder. In Akechi’s arms, he realizes for the first time just how _skinny_ Yusuke is. Akechi supports his weight with ease. Akechi feels Yusuke’s sobs in his bones, crashing through him like a ship on the water. He plants his feet, holding Yusuke steady, prepared to weather the storm. Akechi can’t help but wonder if Yusuke’s ever had anyone to hold him while he cried.

Akechi’s bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Ann would be the first to say so. But he yearns to say something, to _do_ something to help guide Yusuke through. Slowly, Akechi moves his hands to the small of Yusuke’s back. He holds him close and lets Yusuke cry into his shoulder.

“Clearly,” Akechi murmurs against the shell of Yusuke’s ear, “she loved you a great deal.”

Yusuke’s hands tighten almost painfully on Akechi’s shoulders. “I can’t,” he gasps, _“begin_ to thank you.”

“I told you,” Akechi tuts, “I just reclaimed that which has always been yours.”

Yusuke shakes his head, turning his face up to meet Akechi’s eyes. “You’re the only one who could have. I never could have trusted anyone else.”

Like this, their faces are so close, Akechi feels Yusuke’s breath on his skin. Their gazes lock, and once more Akechi sees the spark of flint inside Yusuke steel-gray eyes. In an instant, Yusuke surges up to kiss him. Akechi gasps into Yusuke’s mouth, stumbling back. He catches himself, tightening his hold on Yusuke’s waist.

Yusuke cards a hand through Akechi’s tangled mop of hair. He drinks down Akechi’s breath like water. Akechi would let him drink his fill. Akechi tastes the salt of Yusuke’s tears. He’ll kiss them all away, until they’re nothing but memory.

The kiss ends as suddenly as it begins. Yusuke pulls back, lips flush and swollen. He pushes himself back to his full height, forcing Akechi to look up to meet his gaze. Tear tracks stain his cheeks, his eyes and nose flushed cherry blossom pink. But his sobs have faded into quiet sniffles. His hand still smooths through Akechi’s hair, combing through the tangles that sleep has left.

Yusuke smiles, tender and warm, as he cups Akechi’s face in his hands. “Did you brush your teeth?” he asks.

Akechi blinks at him, then blanches stark white. He tears himself away from Yusuke’s embrace, slapping a hand over his traitorous mouth. Yusuke has the gall to laugh. After everything, Akechi is at least grateful that he can.

“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me,” Akechi grumbles into his hand, resolutely ignoring the blush on his cheeks.

“I understand,” Yusuke chuckles. “I hope it wasn’t unwelcome, though?”

Akechi drops his hand with an exasperated huff. “No. Of course not.”

Yusuke smiles tenderly. “Good. I’m… glad I wasn’t mistaken.”

They share a smile for a moment, every fiber in Akechi’s body yearning to kiss him again. In the silence, the weight of Akechi’s long night settles on his shoulders. He yawns and suddenly remembers that he still hasn’t had his coffee.

Akechi suggests, “Would you like to accompany me down to the café?” And a conbini, he mentally adds, to buy a goddamn toothbrush.

“Ah,” Yusuke hesitates, “I would, but…” He glances at the _Sayuri_ over his shoulder.

Oh, of course. Akechi scoops up Yusuke’s hand in one of his.

Yusuke turns back to Akechi. “Would it be… alright if I just looked at her for a while?”

Gently, Akechi squeezes his hand. “It’s yours. You can stare at it as long as you like.”

A tear escapes Yusuke’s eye with a shuddering breath. Akechi reaches up to brush it away with his thumb. Tenderly, Yusuke leans into his touch. Akechi wants to kiss him again so badly. He thinks better of it and settles for raising their clasped hands and kissing Yusuke’s wrist.

Letting go of Yusuke’s hand takes monumental effort. Akechi comforts himself with the knowledge that the sooner he leaves, the sooner he can return and kiss Yusuke senseless. Akechi’s heels click on the floor as he rushes out of the studio. Yusuke smiles after him. When the door closes, Yusuke turns back. He looks into his mother’s face for the first time.

**Author's Note:**

>  _The Triumph of Galatea_ is a famous painting by Raphael depicting the sea-nymph Galatea achieving apotheosis. Galatea is also the name frequently given to the statue created by Pygmalion; Aphrodite's blessing turns her into a human.
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


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